


Sun

by Shaish



Series: Wings [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Flowers, Gen, M/M, Road Trip, Sex, gentle mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaish/pseuds/Shaish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gentle mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this post and had to do a quick something; http://shaish.tumblr.com/post/141833017126/awesome-picz-reasons-why-you-should-visit-the  
> Music; https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOQrfLFDUKY

They are somewhere in the Netherlands, lost in the spaces of the world even James does not know, rode Steve’s motorcycle past the points and places in his knowledge and then rode even further, out into untouched spaces of the world, places neither of their wings or fingers or feet have bled.

There are flowers, rows and rows of flowers in a gradient shade almost as far as his eyes can see. They stretch down in lines like the trajectory of a bullet or a knife blade, but softer, brutal in their gentleness.

The sun has not risen yet, still slowly stirring from slumber below their feet. He looks over and Steve is layered in gentle blues and pinks, a glance of yellow-gold, the colors deeper, darker, more like James’ side of the world, but...Steve is beautiful.

Steve turns his head after a moment, eyes finding his, and walks over, footsteps soft on grass and hay. He reaches his hand out and James reaches back, their fingers slotting together smooth and easy as the grass crushed beneath his boots. He will never let Steve’s fingers be crushed.

Steve’s lips part slightly like he wants to speak, but then they close and he leans closer, brushes foreheads together, then their lips. It’s a soft caress like the colors caressing Steve and him, and the touches quakes down to James’ core, makes him ache in painful and sweet ways. 

Even talking now would be too violent.

Steve slowly pulls away, eyes colored dark on his, and then shift back to the horizon, the sun finally peeking up beyond the distant trees and splashing everything in gold. Steve’s eyes narrow and he raises his other hand to shield them, and James watches him, shifting just a little closer until their shoulders brush. Steve’s lips curl up and it is the world in his smile, the universe’s breath caught on the curving of flesh and skin, supported on something as breakable as bone.

Eventually, minutes, seconds, maybe hours later - he’s stopped counting and it doesn’t hurt anymore, not here - Steve takes a step and tugs his hand, wings twitching up ( _come with me?_ ), and James moves to follow ( _yes_ ), and they pick their way down between a row of violent violet and heart swelling magenta to Steve’s motorcycle.

\--

They pass large windmills slowly turning in the rising sun, reflections bright and shimmering things on the water, dying at the end of each lost spark and rebirthing anew with the next. There is an old woman watching the sky with eyes faraway and a stillness just shy of a ghost. And James wonders: _Did she lose someone? Did she lose something? Did she have something to lose to begin with?_

And: _Will that be one of us, someday?_

They ride, and he does not get an answer.

\--

The road barely curves, not enough to hide around a bend, but sharp enough that they tilt _this way_ and _that, this way_ and _that_ , over and over and over. He hears Steve laugh over the sound of wind but caught and tangled with the engine, and James’ lips curve up, chin resting against Steve’s shoulder, as his own joins with it, mingling and weaving and becoming one. This way and that, this way and that. The fog is lifting and the sun is hidden behind trees, and the world is slowly finding them again.

He tightens his arms around Steve’s waist and closes his eyes.

\--

They pass a sea of orange, petals swaying in the breeze. They pass strange, brightly colored houses lined up like a child’s set of piano keys, and rolling hills of violet. There is so much color here in the nature, it is almost confusing.

\--

The sun is halfway through the sky when they roll into a city, people walking down cobblestone and brick and laughing, and children crying and screaming, waving their small arms like the windmills James saw with small wings swaying with their parents’ like the orange flowers.

Steve pulls over for gas and then they get lunch, some small place with an outdoor cafe. James puts his back to the wall and watches over Steve’s shoulders, only glancing away to take in the smile on Steve’s face tucked neat around a bite of sandwich he’s chewing, and feels one ease across his own.

Steve’s wing brushes his and a part of him - forever, James suspects - is surprised.

But, also forever, James’ brushes Steve’s back.

They are lovers, and James can almost never say no to him. Despite this flaw, Steve almost never abuses it. James is lucky. So many others have, and would. He tries to keep others from doing the same to Steve.

\--

They are in the room they’ve rented for tonight, a small inn on the edge of the city with old walls and small, old windows, divided into sections by old, white splintered pieces of wood. They are coming apart but they are maybe...unique, because of it.

Steve moves inside of him and James drops his head back until the back of it thunks softly against the wall, breaths escaping his chest like he is drowning and arms and legs wound tight like he never wants to let go (he doesn’t).

Steve holds onto him just as tight, presses reverent lips to the warm skin of his neck and breathes _moans_ and _sighs_ down past it into his bones, down even farther into whatever it is that makes James what he is. 

James’ eyes sting and he brings his head forward, finds Steve’s lips with his own and rolls his hips, muffles soft and quiet and desperate sounds into his lover’s mouth.

Steve’s wings come around, fold over and press into his own, and Steve holds onto him like he never wants to let go, either (he doesn’t).

James comes when Steve whispers between their lips that he loves him, and it feels like they are everything, like they are infinity, like they are forever. 

James keeps rolling his hips until Steve comes, too, not too far behind, because James will never leave him ( _can’t_ ).

\--

Steve sits behind him and gently brushes his hair in the morning light coming through their small, borrowed window, comments on its length while James keeps his eyes closed, and runs his fingers down through it like water.

James turns his head and Steve leans close to kiss him, heart beating steady against his back where Steve’s chest presses, separated only by skin and blood and a tanktop, through James’ chest to find his own heartbeat, those mingling, too.

\--

They return to screaming New York City, to sounds and bangs and laughs and yelling. Bucky is there, watching. He does not come close, still won’t, and Steve is patient, smiles until Bucky retreats back around a corner and then holds in a painful sigh.

James grips his fingers tighter and some of the tension slips away from Steve’s wings, and Steve gives him a smile. 

James keeps it.

He feels eyes on them as they get into the elevator, but Bucky will not come close.

Not yet. Not yet.

Bucky is lost, but they all were, once, sometimes twice.


End file.
